There are a few ways John might further the joke — feigning incredulity or skepticism, a playfully dubious 'if you're sure' — but Martin is kissing him again, and no clever rejoinder would be worth the interruption. He sighs softly, luxuriating in the sensations: the gentle drag of Martin's lips against his own, the way Martin tenderly frames his face in his hands before pushing his fingers back into his hair in what he knows is deliberate bid for a reaction. John hums his pleasure, drawing back just enough to whisper, "Menace," before he gently captures Martin's lower lip between his own in playful retaliation.

The curl of Martin's fingers through his hair doesn't just feel bloody fantastic, it also serves as a reminder of what other uses he might find for his own hands. He lets his right continue its slow circuit of Martin's back; his left, he draws back in so he can reach up between them. He rests his palm against Martin's shoulder for a beat or two, and then he moves, his fingers ghosting up Martin's neck and his thumb tracing the line of Martin's jaw.